


Death and Other Strange Romantic Notions

by PermianExtinction



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Aftermath - Chuck Wendig
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Death-Identifying Marks, Empire's End Robbed Me of a Gallius/Brendol Bromance, F/M, Gen, Reincarnation, So I Rectified That Here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 10:24:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10965321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PermianExtinction/pseuds/PermianExtinction
Summary: Galli is prone to flights of fancy -- he knows this well, his beleaguered best friend Brendon knows it better -- but something strikes him as all too real about the feeling he gets from a fellow student he encounters at the library. It's a pervasive itch that he needs to find a way to scratch: the idea that he's just met the person who killed him in a previous life.





	Death and Other Strange Romantic Notions

Galli first sees her when he's reshelving books on the third floor of the library, at a time when he's usually lost to the world. His headphones — expensive, noise-canceling — are clamped tight over his ears, and he's adrift on a dulcet river of classical Italian opera. There really isn't any other way to spend Wednesday afternoons. But when he turns a corner, tugging the cart along behind him, he's met with a wall of books, a bastion of books, an Iñuipuat _iglu_ of bound printed paper. The fort is about shin-high, neatly arranged, consuming what seems to be much of the library’s 520-529 section under the Dewey Decimal System, and at its center is a most regally posed young woman, astrophysics tome spread open in one hand, seated upon a throne of yet more books, meritorious of modeling the next Rodin's _Thinker_. 

She lifts her head just slightly after a moment of Galli's staring, dusty sunlight beaming through the window, casting highlights over her skin and a ponytail of dark corkscrewed hair. Galli is regarded like a bug under a microscope through the soaring duet of Puccini's _Principessa di morte_ and then the girl lowers her gaze back to her reading. 

Despite it being the biggest reshelving opportunity since the toppled biological sciences shelf of ‘16, Galli does not comment on the book fortress. Silently, he retreats, but the memory is branded indelibly in his mind, as is the searing sensation that pierces his chest like a fiery dart. 

 

"Christ, Galli. If only we all led such _interesting_ lives as you." 

Brendon is hunched over the day's cryptic crossword, chewed-up pencil hovering above the first box of 5-Down. His tone is dismissive as ever, and his mug of pungent black tea steams so hot by his furrowed brow that a bit of sweat glimmers on his skin. He is always like this: furious, abrupt, laboring over something beyond his intellectual capabilities, slightly shiny. There is something to his dependability that makes Galli consider him a friend most days of the week. But not today, if he keeps this up. 

"Don't tell me you've never looked at someone and felt..." Galli's pale fingers flutter as he attempts to capture his sentiment. " _Relevance_. As if you were meant to know them."

Brendon smudges out a few letters on his crossword. "Of course I have."

"Ah! So you have hidden depths after all.”

"It's called having a crush, and it's really not that special." 

The cafeteria is in that very early morning lull, with a scattered handful of students dragging their bleary asses in for some caffeine and opening up textbooks. The window seats overlook the outdoor track field, where a band of fearsome girls, probably the gymnastics team, performs the rigorous militaristic exercise known as the 'burpee'.

Huffing loudly, Galli leans forward across the table. "I haven't even reached the best part, and you're already dismissing my experiences as simple libido. Also, 5-Down is 'tangram'." 

Brendon comes at him with the pencil, point first. "How many times have I told you—!?" 

Galli snaps his hand around Brendon's wrist and wrestles it back. "If you'll just listen to me, I won't spoil your crossword. Do we have a deal?"

It's not a fair deal in Brendon's eyes, but he's no match for Galli in one of his most excitable moods. "Just don't blather on forever," he says. "I've only got so much time on this Earth." 

Sitting back, satisfied, Galli wets his lips. "Do you believe in deathmarks?" he asks. 

"No," replies Brendon immediately. 

"Do you even know what they are?"

"No again. But if I've never heard of something, I can hardly believe in it." 

"I could pick apart that statement for days. There are all too many things you believe in without having heard of them. But since you want me to get right to it..." Galli laces his fingers together. "Imagine if you had a birthmark on your person somewhere that showed you how you died in a past life." 

"Hm." Brendon pulls a face as if this is all far too much for him, but he doesn't comment with any further derision. Instead, he takes his tea in hand and sits back. "Go on."

"I find the idea rather enthralling, myself. Think of the possibilities. A blotch on the throat means you were choked or hanged or perhaps had your throat slit. One on the foot, perhaps you were bitten by a poisonous snake. I dare say you can guess where one would be if you had prostate cancer in your last life." 

Brendon slurps tea. "I guess it's enthralling if you like to think about all the ways people can die."

Galli offers a feral grin in return. “True.”

"Do you really believe in this or is this some… weird metaphor that eventually connects back to your story?" 

"It is," Galli tells him, "of utmost relevance." And then, much to Brendon's obvious consternation, he unbuttons the second and third buttons of his shirt, exposing a circle of skin in the center of his chest. And there, just under his breastbone, is a round discoloration, a spot of light brown amid milk white. 

"Ah," says Brendon, "so that would be a stabbing or a shooting that did you in?"

"Perhaps." Galli is surprisingly pensive, for a moment, and then when he speaks again, he lacks affectation. "I didn't really take it seriously, you know. It was just a fanciful little idea I heard about maybe, oh, a year ago. But it crept in. At night, in dreams. I had so many dreams I thought were, I, I don't know... clues about how it _happened,_ in my old life..." He points two fingers at the mark, thumb straight up, and then jerks them up, miming the kickback of a fired gun.

"I hate to ask this," Brendon eventually says, "but have you been changing your meds around at all—"

"No," Galli snaps. "No, I haven't, it's the same as always, don't be so..." He sulks for a moment, self-consciously re-buttoning his shirt. “We could argue about whether it was a delusion, I suppose, but the dreams were real.”

"I can argue that you're making shit up because you're bored. And if you’ve been having dreams for a year you certainly didn’t tell me. But fine." Brendon reluctantly writes in the letters of 'tangram' for 5-Down, and then hunches over the paper, blocking Galli's field of view. "So uh, you had this transcendental experience in the library, and then you dreamed about... your own death…?" He’d clearly rather go back to his puzzle than think this over any more.

Another tribe of Amazons jogs onto the field and begins warming up with stretches. It's the women's boxing team, from the puffy gloves hanging off of their gym bags. 

“No, the other way around, I—” Galli leans his cheek into his fist, elbow propped on the window sill, and then starts up, dark eyes widening. 

"That's her," he says, and presses his palm against the glass. When Brendon doesn't look up, he taps it urgently, like a child trying to attract the attention of a sleepy tiger in a zoo exhibit. He can't tear his eyes away. The figure down below is dark-skinned, in a gray exercise top and spandex, and is busy stretching her arms across her body, over her head, out in front of her. Her shoulders are sturdy, well-toned — she looks like she could heft an average-sized man over them in a fireman's carry. "That's her. Standing over the five on the track.” 

"That's book fort girl?" Brendon asks. 

Galli nods. 

“Looks like she's got plenty of hobbies. Why don't you go talk to her? Maybe she'd be into wackos like you." 

"What? That's not what I'm saying at all." Rubbing his eyes, Galli tries to collect his thoughts. Emitting a low groan, he sits back, still pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. Then, when he lowers his hands, he is once again composed. "Perhaps I should have simply come right out with it," he says, with a slow, dramatic gesticulation. "When I saw that girl in the library, I was struck with the instinctual understanding — _or delusion,_ ” He holds up a finger aggressively. "Or delusion — that the person sitting in front of me was the one who put this mark on my chest." 

After very deliberately pausing with the mug of tea pressed to his mouth — almost theatrically timed, really, a bit of his friend rubbing off on him— Brendon takes a sip. He puts the mug down. "I see what you mean," he says, "but I really wish I didn't." 

Even Galli seems ever so slightly amazed by it, when he says it out loud. 

“This is pretty extreme,” Brendon adds, “even for you.” 

“I know. That’s why I gave it some time. I even slept on it.” 

“And did you have any of those, ah, prophetic dreams?” 

Galli shakes his head gravely. “Not that I remember. But I woke up and that knowing feeling was still there.” 

“I bet you had it coming, too,” Brendon says. He finishes the last of his tea, even though it has barely cooled. Sooner or later he’ll probably scald all his taste buds away, Galli thinks. “I bet you fuckin' talked her ear off ‘til she put a round in you.”

For some reason this aggravates Galli more than Brendon’s usual ribbing. He scoffs and turns away, but spots movement in his peripheral vision. Brendon is getting up from his seat. 

“You’re heading to class?”

Brendon snaps the paper out to rid it of unwanted creases, and then folds it up. “Yeah. I’ll see you around. Tomorrow, maybe, in psych. I’ve got a busy day today.” And just like that, he leaves. Always so abrupt. 

Once alone at the table, Galli’s eyes flicker over to the boxing team below, catching glimpses of the girl who killed him. 

With Brendon gone he can't manage to stare for more than a few seconds. At least with Brendon, everything felt like a game. Galli would start with the absurd, and then escalate, talking more and more madness while his friend grew ever more choleric. But in this quiet place, with only his own thoughts, it all feels too real. 

He could be crazy, of course. It happens. He thinks this rather distantly. _It happens._ Who is to say it could not happen to you? 

It'll be another two hours before Galli's own first class begins. He removes his headphones from his backpack and queues up a more contemplative playlist before strapping the cocoon of sound to his head, leaning back, sinking away. 

 

_Rise and shine, my dear fellow. - G_

_… you really ought to be awake by now. - G_

_I’m not going. I’m too tired, just fuck it, I’ll get the notes later. - B_

_I’m coming to get you. - G_

_fuck off!!!! fuck off I said I’m not going jesus fucking christ I hate you - B_

_you’re coming up the stairs aren’t you oh my go djust fuck off I havent even showered yet I smell like shite - B_

 

When Brendon emerges from the shower stall in just his underclothes, he looks like a boiled lobster, but then it doesn't take much to redden him so. The sun, any heat, any stress, a sudden humiliation, all will easily do the trick. The listlessness remains in his eyes — he hadn't put up much of a fight when Galli arrived at his dorm room, rattling the door handle like a baleful spirit; he'd opened the door willingly and let himself be dragged down the hall to the bathrooms. Now, Galli wordlessly hands him his towel, but Brendon passes him and stands in front of the sink, turning on the cold water tap to splash his face. Only when that's done does he take the towel and dry his head and shoulders off. 

"Yes. I'm ready now," Brendon says, before Galli can venture a comment. “I’m _fine_.”

 

“Her name is Rae,” Galli announces.

They’re at lunch, sitting together under a tree in the quad because it’s finally warm enough for that, and Brendon can only manage a discontented grumble through a mouth full of beef sandwich. It’ll take him at least ten seconds to chew through this, which is too long to let Galli go unchecked. 

“I could have done more digging, but thankfully the gymnasium displays any victories from past tournaments. You’d know, if you ever went there.”

Brendon silently bemoans the fact that he has a friend who uses the full word ‘gymnasium’ and also suppresses the urge to spit his wad of sandwich in Galli’s face. He knows he’s out of shape, but that’s no call for anyone to comment about it. 

“As it turns out,” Galli continues, leaning back on the grass and staring up through bud-dusted branches at a clouded-over sky. “Book fort girl won the league championship for women’s boxing last year. I’m quite impressed. And surprised I haven’t heard of her until now. Rae Sloane. A scholar and an athlete.”

Finally free to speak, Brendon adjusts himself on his tree root. “So, what, you’re a stalker now?”

“Of course not!” Galli retorts. “I wasn’t even looking for her name. It just happened…” He doesn’t flush, but instead looks a little paler than usual. And he’s probably lying.

“Well, maybe you _have_ learned something important.”

“What?” 

Brendon hesitates. He can see that this isn’t just a whim for Galli. It could be an obsession. And that’s not something he wants to encourage. “You know she could punch your head off if you mess with her.”

“Believe me,” Galli says morosely, plucking at a bit of grass. “I’ve been imagining that very event in meticulous detail.” Then after a moment he glances Brendon’s way and goes on, “I still think you were right about it being a shooting or a stabbing, though.” 

“I wasn’t being serious,” Brendon tells him. 

“I know.” Galli twirls the blade of grass around one finger. “But I am.” 

 

That evening, while the two of them are hogging the most comfortable spaces in the dorm’s common room, Galli’s internal mulling seems to come to a breaking point. 

“I should go back there,” he says abruptly, dropping his book onto the table by his armchair. “To the library. I feel that I must.”

Whenever he phrases something like that, ‘I feel that I must’, it’s a sign of trouble. There is a faraway gleam in his eyes. 

“I _feel_ I ought to stop you,” Brendon mumbles. He’s sprawled out on the sofa, face turned towards the cushions, a couple of empty beer cans on the floor beside him. If one were to perform a statistical study to determine which students spent the most time laying on this particular sofa, Brendon would probably be the most frequent occupant. He aims to get there early and stay put, and is difficult to bully or coax out of his position because of his size. Galli might be the same height, but Brendon is one and a half times his weight and steadily increasing in mass as the year goes on. 

“You won’t,” Galli declares as he stands up. “Because you owe me.” 

Brendon considers for a moment that he _should_ because he owes Galli. That if Galli keeps him from sliding off the deep end, he might as well return the favor. 

“I won’t be long. But I’m sure that if I just… stand there one more time, I’ll know if I felt something real. That it wasn’t just some strange romantic notion.” 

With a prolonged, guttural, animal-like groan, Brendon forces himself upright and leaves his precious sofa spot vacant. 

“I’m coming with you,” he says. 

 

After crossing the campus, amid blue evening shadow, Galli and Brendon ascend the library stairs together, their voices climbing in volume until they catch themselves and drop back to a self-conscious whisper, remembering this is, in fact, a library. It’s mostly empty by now, with a few students scattered around in their study corners.

"Keep having these revelations and you could write a book about them," Brendon says, struggling to keep up with Galli's quick, purposeful strides. "It'll take off. Very New Age, this reincarnation stuff." 

"What a rather brilliant idea!" Galli sounds delighted, in a manically unfocused sort of way. "What a brilliant idea. I'm sure certain types would eat it up. Mad, the lot of them."

"I can't tell if _you're_ mad or just very, very bored. Which way was it?" 

Galli jabs a finger purposefully in the direction of the astronomy section. "Onward," he declares. "It is time to seek answers."

"To find out how you died! Delightful." Brendon burps slightly and covers his mouth, embarrassed.

"We won't find that out quite yet. We're gathering clues." 

"Do you think she'll be there?" With a sharp, sudden laugh, Brendon adds, "You'd better be careful. What if she kills you this time, too?" 

"Oh, that'd be quite—" Galli's voice dips back down from its raised volume. "The thing. But I've been working here since the start of the term, I think I'd notice if someone was always around taking whole shelves of books down and sitting among them." 

"Like a book dragon," Brendon offers. "Atop her book hoard." 

"It was the 520 section," Galli says. "Astronomy."

He rounds the corner, then jolts back as he voices a tiny, unbecoming squeak. 

The hoard is assembled, and the dragon is in her place. She has a stool this time, has propped her knees up, and is leaning forward, fingers laced together thoughtfully in front of her lips. There is a laptop at her side, but the tilted-down screen is dark. Her eyes are fixed upon the pair who stand at the end of the corridor of shelves. 

Rae Sloane lifts a pointedly questioning eyebrow.

Brendon blotches a vivid, fleshy pink and ducks out of sight, muffling nervous laughter. Galli is temporarily abandoned, and he stares like an animal before an oncoming car. 

"So," Rae says, in a voice like ringing bronze. "Do you two _need_ anything?"

Galli takes a dazed step forward, and in that moment seems to become possessed by a cocksure spirit that urges him onward. He grins, teeth flashing, and clasps his hands together. "Well," he says. " _Well_. Isn't this a wonderful coincidence? You see..." He's still approaching, but it's hard to tell if the evenness of his pace is confidence or masked wariness. "I saw you the other day and noticed the subject matter of your... extensive... reading..." The mask is already slipping, but he wrestles it back in place as he stops a few meters from the pile of books and leans against a shelf. “From the textbooks, I'd imagine you're taking Professor Tarkin's astrophysics course, no? I've been, ah, considering that one for next semester. Heard it's quite the grind, but really..." He gesticulates uncertainly, attempts a laugh, runs a finger over the spine of a nearby book — a history of cosmological study. "I could use the challenge."

Then, with trepidation, he waits to see what kind of response he'll get. 

Rae puts her head in one hand, rubbing her eyes with thumb and forefinger. "Can't believe this..." she mutters. 

"Sorry," Galli blurts out. He shrinks back, the confidence ebbing away. He is suddenly very aware of several things — fatigued lines creasing the young woman’s forehead, and, when she looks up again, darkness in the tender skin under her eyes, slightly chapped lips. The sunlight was flattering, but the fluorescent glow overhead makes her look far less statuesque. “Never mind, I didn't mean to, to bother you..." 

The young woman is unfolding and rising to her feet, wearing a very focused frown. She crosses her arms, a gesture both stern and defensive, and takes a moment to simply regard Galli with that uncomfortably piercing gaze. Once again, his chest seems to sting, like acid is eating through his flesh. 

Then she turns one arm up to check a plain, utilitarian wristwatch. "Hm. It's almost closing hours.”

"Is it?" Galli manages. He feels something pinch the fabric of his coat, right under his shoulder blades, and turns to see Brendon tugging him back. His friend is wincing, signaling 'kill this' with a flat hand swipe under his throat. Galli pulls out of Brendon's grip with a swift, angry shrug.

"If you're interested in the class, you're right that it would be challenging. I wouldn't take it on a whim." Rae bends down and digs her fingers under one pile of about ten fat books, hefting it up from the floor. Her laptop is seated atop it, and she fixes it in place with her chin. 

Galli can't help but notice those well-toned shoulder muscles — the ones he spotted that one morning from the cafeteria — bulge under her blouse. He can't forget, either, what it was that made this particular person stand out to him in the first place. 

Maybe he should be a little more cautious. 

"May I be of assistance?" 

Or maybe he should just open his mouth and follow whatever stupid urge his tongue is seized by. 

"What?" says Rae. "Oh. Fine." She jerks her chin towards the remaining stacks of books. "Go ahead."

Galli thinks he hears a muttered _dumbshit_ from Brendon's direction. He wheels around and beams at Brendon. "And why don't you help, too?" he asks. 

The look he receives is positively venomous. But then it fades with a sigh as Brendon seems to decide that it's far too much effort to protest.

Galli sidles by Rae, and while the pile of books in her arms stands firmly between them, almost obscuring her face, he still feels unnerved by this closeness, as though he'll combust if he touches her. _Which would be preferable?_ he thinks dizzily. _For this to be what it seems like? A simple, if bizarre, attraction? Or would I rather confess to being frightened of a stranger over a freakish delusion?_

"So," he says, as he lifts up a stack of books. "Where should we—?"

"The counter," Rae tells him. "I'm checking them out."

He's astonished. "All of them!"

"No, I might decide to leave a few behind when we get there." Rae walks past Brendon and side-eyes him as she does, and for a second he appears unsettled. His eyes flicker away and he draws his arms tightly across his chest. Then, once Galli has passed him, he ventures down to the end of the corridor and takes one book in each hand. He seems about to speak, but shakes his head and trails after the other two. 

"So this class really is that difficult?" Galli grunts as he adjusts his load, as if to demonstrate his point. 

"It _is_ ," Rae says. "Though the books aren't all for the class. Some of it's just hobby work."

"Your hobby is... space?" He's never thought much about the subject before, but there is a faint wonder in his tone. He's holding books about the universe in his arms. No wonder they feel so heavy. 

Rae _hmms_ agreement. Galli can detect fatigue in that little sound too. He has to swallow down a twinge of disappointment. Was it unfair to expect her to be vivid and interesting? And perhaps he’s simply caught her on a bad day. He stumbles in his mind for words. 

"Have you ever been to the observatory?"

She stops. 

"You know, on top of the science building? I've heard quite well-equipped. But of course, for real stargazing you'd have to escape the light pollution.”

The book pile in her arms, for just a moment, seems to wobble. Then she tightens her grip on it and straightens her back. “I’ve been there,” she says, and her voice has regained its original timbre. Clear, confident. “Yes. Plenty of times. For the class, mostly.”

They’re approaching the stairs now, with their unsteady piles of front of them, and Brendon taps his shoulder. “Maybe consider taking the elevator?” he mutters. “Unless you want to break your neck if you trip.”

“Oh, why don't you just go on ahead, Brendon? You can cushion us if we fall." 

"God, I _hate_ you!" Brendon snaps, plants his hands on Galli's shoulders, and forcibly steers him towards the elevator. 

In any other case Galli might quip back, but he hears a startled burst of laughter behind him, and twists on instinct, seeking out the source. It must have come from Rae, but it seemed so foreign, like hearing the fluttering tones of a pipe when drawing a bow across cello strings.

But if there was any kind of mirth in her features, it has already faded away.

She follows them into the elevator, its spacious metal interior built for book carts. _Why didn’t we use one of those?_ Galli wonders belatedly. He taps a staccato on the underside of the books, as their hard edges press into his fingers. “And do you… have any other hobbies?” 

Brendon snorts and leans against the wall as the doors shut and the elevator begins descending. “Boxing. He knows. We know. He saw your picture in the gym.”

“Just by chance!” Galli splutters, appalled by this betrayal. There should have been an obvious line drawn between friendly teasing and throwing someone under the bus, but apparently Brendon doesn’t see it or is quite willing to cross it. The sheen on the walls is faintly reflective, but all that can be seen is a group of indistinct figures, a spectral audience. Scrutinized by the stare of ghosts, Galli feels his neck prickle with sweat.

Rae Sloane does not look surprised, though her eyes do narrow. “I suppose,” she finally says pensively, “that you could call that a hobby. Though I don’t.”

The doors open. Galli rushes forward, eager for an escape. The main desk is within view, and he strides towards it, dropping the books on it with a heavy thump. “There we are,” he says brittlely. “I should go now. And. Work. On homework. Nice to meet you.” He stares at Brendon, _How could you?_ and receives an unsympathetic shrug.

The second pile of books, the one Rae carried, hits the counter, to the befuddlement of the young man behind the desk. He looks over them, scoots his eyebrows far up on his forehead, and then reaches for his scanner. “Wait,” Rae tells him. “I’m sorting through them first.” 

Brendon puts the final two books atop the counter and then slouches off towards the exit. But Galli still hesitates.

“You must find this uncomfortable,” he blurts out. “Really, I do understand. A couple of people barging in on you and acting so strangely. But if you’ll let me explain myself…” He swallows. “I suppose I made it strange in my mind because that’s more fun, or more comfortable. But in truth, I’ve been working here in the library for a semester and half now, and I’ve never seen anyone make themselves so at home here. Of course I’ve seen students asleep on the couches, or hooked up to a rat’s nest of electronic devices at one of the desks. I’ve caught whiffs of marijuana in the group study rooms, and I’m sure people would see that as the ultimate sign of settling in. But I found you sitting in that aisle like you owned the place, and it did seem different. Maybe I was in a peculiar mood that day but it just struck me as incredible. That’s all.” He fidgets, craving the comfort of his single room, the blinds drawn shut, eardrums wreathed in nothing but familiar melodies. Maybe Verdi would do the trick. Mourn his loss of dignity with the _Messa da Requiem_ …

Rae has separated her stacks of books into one smaller and one larger, and the smaller stack has been moving under the library worker’s scanner, then filling up a canvas backpack.

“That’s quite a nice story,” she says, and shoves the last book into her bag. 

Her words cut like paper, with Galli unsure at first if he feels anything, before the thin line of red wells up from the fluttering flap of skin. Unsure if it truly hurts or just discomfits him. “I…” he begins. 

“No, it really is. I wish it were true. It all depends on the person, of course, but I think I would have been flattered by all that. Everyone likes to be told they’re unique.”

The young man behind the desk hands Rae’s ID card back and then, with a subtle clearing of his throat, stands up and retreats back to the assorted piles of returned books as if nothing could be more urgent. 

“But I heard your conversation,” Rae says flatly, as she slings her overstuffed bag over one shoulders. She looks like a hiker about to traverse a perilous mountain, with all her supplies for survival crammed together into one portable pack. And she has the same steely determination in her jaw as an expert climber surveying an impossible ascent. “It was loud, and the library is quiet. I know perfectly well what you came here for.”

She says it as if she knows his innermost thoughts. 

This would make sense in a dream, Galli considers, where your drowsy, discombobulated logic makes perfect sense to everyone else because they are you, your own mind wearing many faces. And maybe he is dreaming, because he doesn’t feel in command of himself. He feels a smile peel open his face. “Of course,” he says, which is, frankly, bullshit. He knows that he’s instinctively playacting, as if he will stay afloat in this conversation by feigning absolute confidence. “Should we have just come right out and asked you? I didn’t think you’d be inclined to divulge it all right away.”

“Oh, I’m not,” Rae tells him. “Don’t you think I have better things to do?” She casts her gaze down very grimly, and shakes her head. “I knew you two would eventually come round to haunt me, but I’ve got a project due Monday. We can’t do this right now.” 

“Do… this?”

“Settle scores.” 

That hadn’t even occurred to him. But wouldn’t most people think about vengeance? Isn’t that why spirits of folklore linger on earth after their passing? “I didn’t come here about that.”

Rae scrutinizes him. “And your friend feels the same way?”

“Brendon? What does he have to do with it?”

“Do you remember _anything_ of the old world?”

He shakes his head. “I… I don’t think…?” 

“… Then you don’t remember. But you do have the mark, and you know what it is.” 

“The mark,” Galli says weakly. “I think… so?”

She steps up to him. “ _Where I shot you_ ,” she snaps, and jabs a fingers against his chest and he feels the _hole_ , piercing right through, clean from one end to the other. 

Galli’s eyes widen, and he finally, truly understands what it would mean if this was _real_ , not a game he was playing, completely outside of his control. “It hurts,” he whispers, amazed and afraid.

The way Rae’s features slacken, something has become more real to her too. 

“I thought it was a game,” Galli eventually says. “My game. Something I made up.” 

She laughs at this, mirthlessly. It isn’t at all like that laughter from before, which he’d wanted to hear more of. Now it stings with bitterness. “Of course you did.” She steps back, turns away, and adjusts her backpack straps. 

Galli cuts her off before she reaches the door, holding his hands up in front of her. “Wait,” he tells her desperately. “Just wait. Prove to me one thing.”

Her feet slide apart and her shoulders square up. “What?” she demands.

 

Brendon is crossing the quad, heading in the direction of his dorm building. It’s at that time of day when the light fades fast — when they had entered the library the sky had been brighter in contrast to the shadowed earth, but now the streetlamps are on, forming and spacing but not abolishing the shadows, and the sky is showing the first few pinpricks of stars. 

Just when he’s begun to shake off the chilly feeling that had begun to seep in so subtly that he barely noticed it, he hears the frantic slapping of shoe soles against pavement, approaching fast. Someone is running towards him. Immediately, he looks around for the nearest campus police call box, a tall pole lit by a blue light. They’re meant to be spaced around so that anyone could reach them in an emergency, but Brendon feels like whoever designed them had a dislike of the overweight and out-of-shape. In a burst of paranoia he hustles towards the light, barely able to run more than a few steps before his lungs ache. He thinks, _Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I swear I’ll stop laying around all hours of the day. I’ll go to the gym, I’ll sweat to death on a treadmill, I’ll get back to my old weight, just let me live!_

Looking over his shoulder he is horrified to see a figure charging directly at him, and when the figure crosses through a pool of light from a nearby lamp he sees that it’s Galli. This doesn’t assuage his dread very much, and he stumbles back a few more steps towards that unreachable blue light. 

Does he try to fend off his lunatic friend with an angry appeal to reason — _What the hell’s gotten into you?_ — or does he simply plead for mercy? He doubts he can defend himself in a fight. Brendon sweats, hesitates, hesitates too long. Wild-eyed, Galli runs up to him and grabs him by the shoulders, nearly toppling him backwards. 

“Show me!” Galli demands. “You have to—” He stops to wheeze in a breath. It seems like he’s run top speed from the library to this spot on the quad. “Show me! Turn around!” 

“What the fuck is hap—”

Galli wrestles him around with savage, desperate strength. “Just hold still!” he growls.

“Okay, okay!” Voice cracking, Brendon succumbs to his most cowardly instincts and lets himself be manhandled. He feels something sharply tugging at his hair. “Ow! Ow, ow, shit—!” More rustling, and then a pair of white flashes illuminate the path around him, one faint and one glaring. 

It’s the flash of a camera. For some reason, Galli has taken a picture of the back of Brendon’s head.

And then, more quickly than he’s used to making leaps of intuition, Brendon _does_ know the reason, and it is a terrifying reason, a nightmare of a reason that he wishes he could wake up from. 

“What is it?” he gulps, and turns around, palm open, demanding the smartphone Galli is holding. “Give that to me.”

Galli wordlessly displays the phone screen to him instead. Brendon sees an image of his scalp under unflatteringly harsh light, red hair parted by intruding fingers. It’s an ugly, clinical picture, like a photograph in a medical textbook of a rare skin disease, except nothing _is_ diseased. There’s a bit of visible dandruff, to his embarrassment, but the only other notable thing about it is a distinct pink blotch on the patch of skin being exposed. 

“Did you know you had this?” Galli sounds accusing, as if he’s caught Brendon doing something illegal. 

Brendon instinctively probes the spot with his fingers, as if he’s expecting to feel wet blood. “Why _would_ I?” he demands. His hand slowly drops. The mark isn’t even that clear. It’s not as dark as Galli’s. “How did _you_ know it was there?”

“That’s what she told me.” Galli spreads his hands out wide, embracing the night, exposing himself to the universe and all its heartless ferocity. He laughs, a warbling loon sound, spins fully round on the toe of one shoe like he’s Julie Andrews declaring the hills are alive. “She was talking about how she knew us both, told me to look at the back of your skull, and she said, _that’s how it happened_.” 

“Why would you _tell_ me?” Brendon asks hoarsely. His voice pitches as if he could cry, but can’t find enough moisture in his throat. “Why fuck did I need to know?”

Galli stops his restless cavorting, suddenly staring at Brendon with wide, hunted eyes. 

“Why do you _need_ this?” Brendon curls his fists, a pugnacious vein bulging on his forehead as he faces Galli and takes a threatening step forward. “Why do you have to pull at things until they unravel? What’s so important to you about chasing after death?”

Galli tries to form words, fails for a few seconds, and then laughs again, breathy and helpless. “Because!” he crows. “It’s fun!”

There are only a few figures wandering this part of the campus at this hour, and they are walking purposefully to one place or another in the distance. Brendon knows they heard Galli, because a pair of them twist around, baffled by this outburst. Then they hurry along with their business, probably imagining the boys on the path came stumbling out of a Friday night party, replete with alcohol and drained of inhibition. In Brendon’s case there’s a bit of lingering truth to that, but he’s not the one who’s turned into a maniac. 

But maybe he is. Maybe they both are drunk on life, on death, and other strange romantic notions. _It’s fun_. How could that possibly be true? Galli isn’t usually as much of a liar as he is a bullshitter, but this feels like it holds some truth, even if the truth is not in the words themselves. 

Of course it isn’t fun. But it is so very _vivid_ , and when Brendon presses his fingers against the spot on the back of his head again, phantom pain running down his spine, he can just about feel a concentrated beam of light splitting open his skull and tearing through his brain matter, leaving a hole coming out through his forehead like the fabled third eye, the eye that sees into the beyond.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I could probably write more of this universe, adding in a lot more reincarnated Imperial characters (I already have ideas for how the plot could proceed), but I'll leave this as a one-shot for now.


End file.
